


The Flying Coffin

by nymja



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 06:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7090201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you the praying sort, Jakku?” Asked her flight instructor, a retired fighter pilot named Wedge Antilles.</p><p>“Not particularly, sir.”</p><p>He’d smirk. “I think you’ll find religion in one of these things.”</p><p>It was well-known that none of the Flying Coffins carried parachutes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Flying Coffin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starforged](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starforged/gifts).



> for starforged who requested ww2 fic! i might write a follow-up to this idk

**One.  
**

The man was wearing the tan flightsuit favored by the Americans, a pair of brown aviators sliding down the bridge of his nose. Errant black curls escaped from underneath his hat.

“You the recruit the RAF’s sending over?”

Rey cleared her throat, stood at attention, and gave a salute. “Second Flight Lieutenant Jakku, sir.”

The man nodded and returned the salute. “At ease– I’m guessing you know who I am?”

She met his stare levelly. “Yes, Commander Dameron.”

He smiled. “I’m the one who’s going to be towing your flying coffin. Ready to meet her?”

Rey smiled back, hers with more of an edge. “Of course, sir.”

  


**Zero.**

Flight school had been difficult. After her home had been leveled during an air raid in London, and her family killed, it was all she could do but enlist. Being a civilian, and a woman, had her meeting her share of resistance, but the years she spent working as a mechanic in Unkar’s garage had served her well. When she volunteered to be part of a new division, no one had questioned it.

Mainly because no one wanted to be part of it.

The training had been for Waco CG-4A combat gliders–engineless, gunless. Made of wood and canvas. Not meant for landing so much as a designed crash. More than a handful of recruits had already died by simply doing training runs. Which was darkly fitting, as the body of them were built by coffin makers. Her fellow trainees were either washouts from the military flight academy, or like her: civilian recruits with little sense of self-preservation.

Rey’d studied geometry, physics, meteorology, cartography, and engineering. Months spent on just science before she was able to get a spot on the actual airfield. When taking a box into the air behind enemy lines, it was good to have all variables accountable.

“Are you the praying sort, Jakku?” Asked her flight instructor, a retired fighter pilot named Wedge Antilles.

“Not particularly, sir.”

He’d smirk. “I think you’ll find religion in one of these things.”

It was well-known that none of the Flying Coffins carried parachutes.

**  
**

**Two**.

Dameron was a merciless commander, though she found his drills easier to tolerate than the ones in flight school. He bore the chaos around them with an easy smile, and was one of few military officers willing to sit next to his people in the mess.

“Good flying out there, Jakku.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He clapped her on the shoulder. “Two more weeks and we’re off. You ready?”

Rey nodded, adding water to her dehydrated rations and spinning it with her finger. The two of them ate in companionable silence, before Dameron surprised her by clearing his throat.

“Got any family?”

Rey bit down on her lower lip. “Not anymore, sir.”

Poe gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “My mom was shot down by the Germans in 1918. Dad’s stationed in Italy.”

“No girl?”

Poe smirked. “You flirting with me, Jakku?”

She only gave a disbelieving shake of her head, returning back to her portion.

  


**Three.**

Neither her nor Commander Dameron can sleep. The pair of them walk under Dameron’s C-47, inspecting the riveting on the plane’s fuselage.

“She’s looking good,” he said, knocking his knuckles against the underside of a wing.

“Good enough to tow, sir?”

He snorted. “I’m the best damn pilot in the Allied Forces. I could tow an elephant if I had to.”

Rey smiled and Dameron slung an arm over her shoulders.

“C’mon, I got a pack of cards and some whiskey back at the barracks. Let’s put them to good use, Lieutenant.”

**  
**

**Four.**

The desk she’s in is uncomfortable, the back of it digging into her spine. But Rey ignored it as she stared straight ahead, where Commander Dameron began to outline the debriefing.

“You’ll be flying Operation Varsity,” he said, sending them a heavy stare. His eyes land on Rey and stay there for a few seconds. “And you’re flying right past the Rhine. Landing in the heart of Northern Germany.”

Beside Rey, First Flight Lieutenant Pava gives her an excited elbow nudge. Rey’s hands were steady as she took the pencil in her hand and drew schematics and trajectories.

She won’t fail. She believes that.

**  
**

**Five.**

She watched as ground crew loaded her glider. The Flying Coffin can hold about 1800 kilograms, and all that weight is dedicated to supplies and heavy weaponry for ground troops. Her glider is mostly handling transport, since she has a mechanic’s background. Rey watched as they shifted the jeeps into neutral and rolled them up into her craft.

At the time, she thought nothing of it when Dameron entered the _Baby Eight_ , a wooden crate under his arm.

**  
**

**Six.**

Evening sets and it’s about time to go. Rey shrugged her leather bomber jacket closer around her–it’s very American, but Dameron had insisted. Said it had looked sharper than the fur-lined jackets of the RAF, to which Rey had given a patient roll of her eyes.

“Scared, Jakku?” He asked, standing beside her for the final moments before they had to go their separate ways. They both watch as the crew attach a tow cable between his fighter plane and Rey’s glider. A flimsy looking rope–it’s all that’s going to get her airbourne.

“Only if you are, sir.”

“I’m about to catapult you in a box into Germany.” He moved his arms, pulling her into a hug. Rey stiffened, then relaxed as his cheek rested against the top of her head. “You can call me Poe.”

She returned the embrace. After a moment, he pulled back, curling a few fingers under her chin and tipping her head up.

“I’m gonna need you to get back, you know.”

Rey smiled. “I’ll be able to handle myself.”

“Then I’m about to do something wildly inappropriate.”

“Of course you are, sir.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead.

**  
**

**Seven.**

From where she sat in the cockpit, Rey can see Dameron’s _Princess Leia_ begin to ascend. There’s a few moments of uncertainty, but then the _Baby Eight_ is being lifted, tugged along. The first thing that strikes her is the noise. The Flying Coffins are also nicknamed Silent Wings–what’s apparently a misnomer as the canvas and wood lets in every sound from the outside. Rey felt the body of the plan begin to shake, and her hands wrapped tightly around the yoke as the glider ascended 300 feet, then 500. A thousand.

“You’re on your own, Flygirl.” Crackled Dameron’s voice in her ear.

The tow cable snapped. She watched as the _Princess Leia_ began to pivot.

“See you in Germany, sir.”

Soon there was nothing but Rey, her controls, the coffin she flew, and the approaching enemy line.

**  
**

**Eight.**

She landed. Somehow, she landed. The sun is just starting to lighten up the sky, an edge of pink that broke apart the darkness of the forest. Rey sent a message through the comms back to base before she began to roll out the jeeps. Once on the ground, she pulled off her gloves with her teeth and started to work on reassembling their engines and checking tire pressure. Her flare gun and pistol beat against her hip with the work, and her eyes are constantly scanning the trees for enemies.

She paused when the _Baby Eight_ was empty, save for the wooden crate. The one Dameron had smuggled aboard. With a frown, Rey pried off the top with a crowbar, eyes narrow when what’s inside registers.

Documents. Maps. Manuals. What is clearly intelligence, and definitely not something that has been included in her inventory. Rey hesitantly picked up the first item, a manilla folder with “FN-2187” stamped across it in red.

That’s when there’s the click of a safety.

Rey pivots from where she was crouched, hand going to her pistol when she sees a soldier standing in the entryway to her glider. A soldier wearing the greys of Wehrmacht underneath his leather jacket.

“Don’t shoot!” He stated in American-accented English–something curious enough for Rey to pause. “I’m with the Allies.”

He set down his gun, his hands instead raising up the breast pocket of his jacket. And Rey’s heart skips a beat when she sees “DAMERON” on the label.


End file.
